


Dibs

by Path



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-13
Updated: 2011-07-24
Packaged: 2017-10-21 08:56:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 9,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Path/pseuds/Path
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spades Slick woos you with pain, and he doesn't skimp on it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the Kink Meme:
> 
>  _Maybe Slick decides that he actually doesn't completely hate this private eye who's been chasing after him and starts trying to woo him in the most inappropriate and creepy way possible. Killing people is probably involved. Bonus points if he remains his usual ragey self through the whole thing, and Problem Sleuth has no idea what's going on._
> 
> Obviously I've been focusing on the "the most inappropriate and creepy" part.

When you first meet Spades Slick, you're just kind of surprised at how vicious he is. Some people are just people, and some people have a dark streak inside that sometimes pushes up to the surface, and it's that that provides you with a relatively steady income. Spades Slick, you sort of have to wonder if he's anything but darkness, and if he's got a human streak buried in him that sometimes wells up like blood in a shallow cut.

The first time, you're not prepared. You'd figured that with the trail he left, Spades Slick wasn't a smart guy. And he's not- not intellectual, anyhow. He's not a smart guy. His mind would best be defined as "cunning", because while sometimes his ideas are downright fucking terrible and you have no idea how it seemed anything else to him, they're always oriented around the deliberate and intentional purpose of injuring someone or something, usually very badly indeed. This grants him a sort of immunity, because people expect him to want money or fame or beautiful women, and attempts to stave off his hunger for destruction with pale substitutes are usually met only with further destruction.

His mind is sharp and honed in on one thing only. He doesn't have a whole lot outside of that ever-present need to ruin the people around him. He's not a deep guy. But just because he's playing the same riff over and over doesn't make it any less effective. And anybody who thinks he's less than a complete psychopath is in for a nasty surprise, and then probably a nasty trip to the hospital.

If they're lucky. The less lucky have a nasty trip to the morgue.

So of course you don't expect a complete psychopath on your first time meeting him, being a complete dumbass yourself, and so you end up bleeding on the warehouse floor with Spades Slick flipping through your wallet.

"Problem Sleuth," he says, reading your ID. Then he flips to the next card and nearly dies in a fit of rough, barking laughter. Beside him, Diamonds Droog cracks a slim smile and Hearts Boxcars lets out a single laugh that could probably deafen you if you were in the direct path of it. You don't know what's so funny. It's just your business card. These guys are so weird.

He kneels down next to you and stabs right the fuck through your hand, impaling it into the floor, and as you howl there and try to get a hold of yourself, he smiles a smile full of frightening teeth and says, "You know what, Problem Sleuth? You can just keep that. It's a gift from yours truly." Then he bends down next to you and says, all calm and comfortable, "Because I like you, Problem Sleuth."

Then he leaves, and leaves his knife in your hand (or rather, through your hand), and you are left with a handful of disturbing realizations.

The first is that Spades Slick is a legitimate psychopath.

The second is that you cannot afford to underestimate him if you want to keep your limbs.

The third, and perhaps the most disturbing of all, is that he was not lying when he said he liked you.


	2. Chapter 2

You meet again when you track him down mid-haul, facing off in the bank vault itself. The Crew looks like it's about to shoot you when you announce yourself, but the second he sees you, Spades Slick gets this unholy grin on his face. "Hey! Leave off, morons! It's Problem Sleuth." He turns and smacks Clubs Deuce, who runs to get another bag of money, and glares at Hearts Boxcars until he gets back into motion too.

Droog looks grudgingly at his pistol, pointed at your chest, and back to Spades Slick. Slick's grin turns even more frightening. "I've got _dibs_ on Problem Sleuth," he says. Your legs suggest, maybe you should just step right back outside and keep running until you're out of Midnight City. You tell them to pipe down.

He cracks his knuckles and steps forward. You bring your fists up. You know some boxing. Can't go far in a place like Midnight City if you can't throw a good punch. The two of you take another step, then another, and you keep expecting him to dive at you, but he doesn't. He just looks like it. Constantly.

Finally, when you're just inside range, he feints, you counter, and then he stabs you in the ribs with a knife he'd concealed in his other hand. Then there's a quick blow to your jaw and a kick sweeping behind your legs and you are down already.

He leaps on you, straddles your chest and pins your hands by your head. He's skinny, you think, you should be able to get him off, but you're losing blood and you're mostly kind of scared if you struggle he'll put more knives in you. So you stop, and Spades Slick looks down at you from a couple inches away.

"You came," he says, with this joyous tone to his voice.

"Well, you are robbing the bank," you say.

"Yeah, but you didn't show up to the last time. We were set enough from that. But you didn't show up, so I figured, we'd just do it again until you came by. Second time's a charm." His teeth lock together when he isn't talking, like a shark.

"Why d'you want me here, though," you ask him. Your side is soaking, now. His knee presses against the wound.

"Why?" He looks more confused than anything. "Because I got _dibs_ on you, Problem Sleuth."

Then he cracks you in the face, a headbutt so enthusiastic and excited that you can't really compare it to anything, and your nose feels like it's going to explode before he pulls a knife and skewers your hand to the vault floor, and you pass out.

When you come to again, you pull the knife out of your hand, wrap the wound in your coat, and walk out to the police, who put you in an ambulance. You wipe the knife on your pants and holster it with your gun. In your brain, Spades Slick smiles at you with a mouth full of piranha teeth from an inch away as he straddles your chest.

Dibs. Yeesh.


	3. Chapter 3

You begin to collect them and throw them in a drawer beside your socks and single itchy tie. You've got over half a dozen now, hunting knives and belt knives, switchblades and box cutters. Once, memorably, he left you with a steak knife in your shoulder, excruciatingly large and unwieldy. It scarred terribly, and it took months to use your arm again. You cannot afford to keep bungling these meetings.

You wonder briefly how many knives the man's got, but the thought doesn't carry. The more knives he's got, the more you're going to end up with in you. You hope he's running low. You seriously doubt it.

He seems to prefer your hands, in general, though he's not averse to other places if the time seems right. So far, the hospital's stitched you up five times for hands. Twice it's been your right, the box cutter and a stiletto. You've taken three in your left, apparently Slick's favourite, which (after the ridged hunting knife) scarred over so thickly you've almost ceased to use it. You've also come in once for your forearm and twice for your shoulder, which took the improvised shiv well and the steak knife unbelievably poorly.

The hospital is beginning to consider charging you, and somehow you get the feeling they think you're doing this as a big joke. Well, you're not laughing.

Once in awhile, when you haven't crossed paths with that psycho for a few weeks, you clench and stretch your left hand, and then you open the drawer next to your socks. You stand looking down at the pile of knives in a sort of wondrous horror. This is too fucked-up to be real.

Your hand has built up scar tissue, thick and inflexible, and it aches constantly.


	4. Chapter 4

You receive a nasty punch in the gut from what looks like a fridge and turns out to be Hearts Boxcars one night when you're snooping around one of the Crew's warehouses. When you stagger into the light, he backs off instantly. You've had a rough day and you haven't really been looking for a fight, let alone one with a tank like this guy, but the uncomfortable look he gives you makes you press your luck.

"What's the matter?" you ask him. "Come on, Boxcars, can't take a guy like me, half your size?"

He looks awkward, like you'd accidentally insulted someone important in a language you were just learning. "It's not that," he says, and raises his hands.

"What is it?" you demand, advancing.

"Boss," he says, looking away. "Boss' got dibs."

Oddly, it enrages you. You stalk towards him and throw a punch, which he takes on the chest and doesn't seem to notice. He grumbles, but doesn't fight back. It's eerie. After a minute, he picks you up by the collar- gently, and far away from him- and sets you down outside like he might a spider or wasp he didn't want indoors.

"Get back here and beat me up," you yell at the closing door.

Boxcars cracks it open a fraction, and his eyes avoid yours. "Sorry, Sleuth," he says, and closes the door.

You beat against it fruitlessly for a few minutes until the pain starts to pound through your wrecked hand. You curse at the door, at Boxcars, and most of all, at Spades Slick, and then you trudge home.


	5. Chapter 5

The next day, you run into Diamonds Droog. He's not doing anything illegal, and he's not anything to do with your case. He's just getting lunch. Shaken up from last night, you decide to harass him.

"Afternoon, Droog," you say casually, and slip into the chair across from him in the little cafe.

He has a gun in his hand, instantly and effortlessly, under the table. Nobody else in the place notices, but you're wired and ready. You already had your pistol out, and he knows it. His eyes flicker to your face, and his own twists into an even more unpleasant expression than what he was already wearing. "What do you want, Problem Sleuth?" he asks sourly.

"I just want to know what's going on," you tell him. "What the fuck's his deal?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Slick? How should I know?"

Your jaw sets. "He's your boss. And I'm guessing you two are closer than he is to the other two goons, being as you seem to have a brain to yourself, and don't have to share with the group."

He smiles wryly. "You would be surprised. He might like me more if he was smarter."

"Than you?" you ask.

"Than me." He seems to disregard you as a threat, and reholsters his gun silently, returning to his lunch.

"Hey," you say, trying to call attention to your gun and the fact you're holding it.

Diamonds Droog sighs. "Since you're not going to let me eat in peace, what can I tell you to make you go away?"

"I ran into Boxcars last night. We didn't even get in a token fight. What's the deal, Droog? Why aren't you and I in a standoff right now? Why've I got a desk full of knives back home, and how many more d'you think I'm gonna collect before all this is over?"

Droog puts down his sandwich, and rests his head on one hand. "Slick has decided he likes you. I would have assumed you could figure that one out by now. He's just expressing that in his own quaint way. Would you want your ridiculous lackeys messing around with your girlfriend?"

"Uh," you say.

Droog gives you a look, an indulgent one, like you're a mosquito, and he's waiting for you to land so he can squash you. "Now may I finish my sandwich?" he asks patiently.

"What the fuck?" you ask politely, gun in hand. "I'm just supposed to accept this like he's buying me a drink?" You shake your head. "You're making this up. What's he up to?"

"I've told you," says Droog, and he looks very tired indeed. "And if I keep talking to you, he'll get angrier, so please. Problem Sleuth. Do us both a favour and leave me alone."

You narrow your eyes. "What if I shot you, right now?"

Droog gives you another amused glance. "You wouldn't. But, you're right, I'd be forced to leave you alone, for now."

"For now?" you ask him, and stand.

His flat eyes meet yours again. "Only until Slick gets bored," he qualifies, and he stands too, as if to escort you out. He stands close, very tall and very straight-backed, and looks down at you. "If you believe nothing else I say today, Problem Sleuth, believe this." He leans in, just a little. "As soon as he loses interest in you, you're dead."

Then he sits back down again to resume eating. He ignores you entirely as you walk out, feeling like you didn't really get what you came for.


	6. Chapter 6

You go through the rest of the day with the feeling that you're a marked man. But nothing comes of it, except an afternoon spent looking over your own shoulder.

But Pickle Inspector's door is open when you return to the office that night. You don't know where to begin with how wrong that is. Suffice to say that you've never seen it open before, including to let Pickle Inspector out of it. You creep over and peer in, with a strong sense of irony. Usually Pickle Inspector's the one looking into other people's windows.

The illusion that he's fallen asleep at his desk is fleeting, and fools you not at all. Certainly, you've spent plenty of time face-first on your desk with your arms thrown wherever, snoozing on slow days. You're normal. Those with even a passing acquaintance with Pickle Inspector know that he never sleeps. Besides, there's something on his hands.

No wait. There's something _through_ his hands. You slide silently in the door and over to him. Weird bottles glint in the shadows, but the hallway is the only light. It's still enough to see the thin knife through each of his palms and the small pool of blood soaking each cuff.

Oh god, he's not dead, is he? You don't know if you could take that. "Inspector," you mutter quietly, and touch his shoulder.

He shivers, and slowly looks up at you, without moving his hands, staked out in front of him on his desk. Okay, whew, not dead. This is really only a minor reassurance at this point. His eyes are wide and his pupils enormous, and tears trail down his face, welling in the dark bags under his eyes. He looks pitiful, and you want to beat the fuck out of anybody who's ever touched him. That is the kind of leader you are.

He opens his mouth and takes a breath. You expect him to use it to whimper and ask you to please get him out of here, but instead he does the bravest thing you've ever seen Pickle Inspector do. He meets your eyes.

"Behind you," he whispers.


	7. Chapter 7

You throw yourself out of the way just in time, and turn, terror and righteous fury mixing into adrenaline. He buries his knife in the desk in that split second Inspector bought you. It hums between Inspector's staked hands, and he pulls back with a sharp intake of breath. Spades Slick's fingers clench the grip. When you meet his eyes, they are white and burning like magnesium flares, and the grin on his face is one of unholy joy. It is the most frightening thing you have ever seen.

You leap at him. This time, it's different. He's marked you out, set you apart from every person in the world. His knives have been in you too many times, and you've had enough. You throw every ounce of vicious possessive anger you had into it. The guy has messed you up enough times, but this... Nobody messes with your team. And especially not with Pickle Inspector. The poor guy doesn't remember to eat on a good day. This marks Spades Slick out as surely as he's marked you.

For the first time, you find yourself a match for Spades Slick. He's only egged on by it, a light in his alien eyes, chanting at you, taunting you, even as you land blow after blow into his ribs, his jaw. Pickle Inspector watches with wide eyes from his desk, wincing and flinching with hits he doesn't receive.

Does Spades Slick ever slow? It's like every jab you land just lends him power. His mouth is bleeding and his shark teeth are red, you think you've broken one of his ribs, and all he does is smile more. His grin cuts a slash of white and red in the dim room. You grab him by the collar and run him into the wall, knocking a bottle to the ground. It shatters, and the sharp scent of home-brewed booze begins to wash through the office. You're just glad it was the liquor bottle.

You throw him to the ground and leap on him, pinning him. His face is into the ground and your knee is in his back, and you're a split-second away from grabbing his hair and slamming his face into the floor a few times for good measure. Then there's a cough, muted and polite, and you look up to Pickle Inspector. He's standing at his desk, hands still pinned to it like the prize butterfly in the museum's collection, and he gives you a nervous look as he watches that says maybe he's about as scared of you now as he is of Spades Slick.

A long moment passes. The clear pool of moonshine creeps across the floor, shining in the hallway light.

You flip over Spades Slick. "Come on," he says, and his voice is harsh and vivid in the silent office. "Fuck me up, Problem Sleuth. You saw it. I did that. And I'll do it again. Take my teeth out. Break my arm. Fuck me."

For a moment, you think that has to be a slip. You didn't just hear that. But Spades Slick's eyes on yours are white fire in the darkness, and his expression has changed from impassioned mania to intent waiting. He meant exactly what he said.

You slug him firmly in the face, and then, finally, his white-beacon eyes close.


	8. Chapter 8

You deftly manage to avoid talking to Pickle Inspector about all this. You get a towel clamped around his hands, and another down on the booze spill, and then you call an ambulance from your phone next door, which is currently the only working one. Apparently there is only one working phone max in this building, and it just reassembles itself between your and Ace Dick's office. You drag Spades Slick over there while you're at it. His head lolls forward and he smells like the cheapest booze, having been literally drenched in it, and for a moment, for one disorienting moment of confusion, you feel you're just helping him home after a night out.

But that's not what this is. This man is a monster and your best friend next door had knives in his hands because this guy thought it was a good way to get your attention. That's not human. That's not even fucked-up. This is downright sociopathic and you should really try to get him thrown away for what he's done.

You feel not-at-all guilty when you accidentally knock his head into the door on the way in. You pat him down and take another handful of knives stashed on him, feeling awkwardly sure that he's got more. You toss them in your safe, and then you cuff him to your desk chair. You tie around his chest and ankles for good measure.

Then you close the door and lock up and wait for the ambulance, your hands clamped down on Inspector's while you wait in the lobby of your office. You even ride in it with him, and somewhere in your brain, filled with grim thoughts, you think it's really funny that Pickle Inspector gets such a kick out of riding in a vehicle with spinning lights.

Most of the night passes in a whirlwind of signatures and stitches, and by the end of it, you walk home, entirely and unsettlingly sure that Spades Slick will no longer be in your office.


	9. Chapter 9

Around midnight, you get back there. You're almost never in your office after sunset.

Your door is still locked. You toss it open but don't enter, just stand waiting in the doorway. After what happened earlier, you're not keen on walking into a dark room. You flip the lights on.

Spades Slick is straining against the cuffs, trying to reach his ankles. Somehow, he's already managed to get the rope around his chest off. His face has a few stunning bruises blossoming on it, hashing into deep violets and blues. He looks up with a snarl as the lights come on, but a second later, it transforms into a hopeful smile, which for Spades Slick, is actually a little scarier than the grimace.

"You came back," he says, and wonder makes its way into the crunching-gravel sound that is his voice.

"Well, yes," you say. "This is my office." You appreciate getting to repeat yourself. Dramatic echoes are hard to come by. You walk over to the safe, entirely casual, and take a nasty-looking knife out. Earlier, it'd been strapped to Spades Slick's ankle, under his pants. You test it against the layers and layers of scar tissue on your left hand, and it cuts simply and easily.

"What are you gonna do to me?" he asks with a jarring look of anticipation.

You backhand him just to wipe it off his face. He lets out a sharp sound- half cry, half growl, and slowly raises his eyes back up to meet yours. In the light of your office, his white-beacon eyes are less vivid, but there's this look of sly victory that begins to suffuse them.

You grab him by the collar and pull him up in the chair. Spades Slick catches his breath. Your disgust filters through your voice. "What am I going to do to you?" you ask. "You've almost murdered me on a dozen occasions. You ruined my hand. You hurt my friend. You're a criminal. You're scum. You ruin hundreds of lives all the time, and the only thing I don't know is why you're so focused on ruining mine in particular." He looks like he's about to answer, but you don't give him the chance. "You deserve to be chucked off a bridge. You should be tossed in the slammer to rot. You shouldn't be allowed to walk around where you might encounter real human beings. You should be _dead_ ," you say, and you realize that you mean it, deeply and passionately. "What do you think I'm going to do to you? Go on. Ask again."

It was a great speech. It was fantastic. You don't get a chance to monologue like that every day.

Spades Slick's grin shivers on his face. He seems to be jiving off this thrilled fear. "...yeah," he breathes. "Yeah. What are you gonna do to me, Problem Sleuth?"

Your fingers tighten in his collar and you pull him in close. You can hear his breathing. He's practically panting. This guy is such a freak, you can hardly believe it. Your noses almost touch, and he looks up at you desperately. His lips are parted and his breath rasps through them, and his eyes are just begging you.

"Nothing," you say, and you drop him. You remove the remaining ropes in one efficient slice.

"N- what?" he stumbles over the words.

You slam the knife in your desk and repeat yourself. "Nothing," you say. You get your keys out and unlock his cuffs, throwing them away.

"But-" he says; you cut him off.

"Get out," you say. "I'm not rewarding you for being a sick freak, Slick." Just like that, he's free. And without a second thought, he grabs the knife you left stuck in the table.

"Sick- you fucking idiot," he yells at you, falling over his words in rage. He leaps for you.

But this time, you're prepared. You stay calm. And you strike first, a simple and effective disarm to send the knife spinning into the corner and make his arm ring. He curses, and you strike again, a quick jab beneath the chin to get his attention and a straightforward punch to the gut. Spades Slick doubles up and, with a quick crack to the shoulders, he's down to his knees.

Shock radiates from him as he looks up at you. "Don't do this," he tells you. And then, slowly, as if he doesn't know the meaning, "Please."

You get the feeling he doesn't even notice when you throw him down the stairs and out to the street. You lock up, and walk home with a buzzing feeling of adrenaline settling down into peace. Except for your aching hand, everything is going to be alright.


	10. Chapter 10

And, mysteriously, it is. In the last week, the Midnight Crew have avoided you entirely, and you think you may have taught Spades Slick a valuable lesson. Pickle Inspector's delicate hands are healing up slowly, but nicely, since the gangster stabbed him with straight blades and not the fucked-up serrated bullshit he liked to put in you.

All in all, it is a good week, up until you walk into your office one morning and the phone rings. There's a hysterical dame on the line. More accurately, and with capitals, Hysterical Dame is on the line. She sounds tense.

"Sleuth," she says evenly, her voice in your ear. You sit down and put your feet up on your desk. The bits of rope are gone, the cuffs away, and the only sign of your recent scuffle is the still-overwhelming smell of moonshine. "I need your help."

This isn't the first time you've gotten a call like this, and, in fact, when the two of you were still together, calls just like this were a vital and exciting part of your relationship, usually directly leading to an even more vital and exciting part. But you haven't gotten a call like that in a long time, and from her voice, you think this might be genuine.

"What's the problem, dollface?" you ask her. There's a short pause, and you can imagine her eyes narrowing at you.

"...some men came," she says eventually. "Is this the Midnight Crew?"

"Probably," you answer, trying to keep all the shake out of your voice.

"What should I do?" she asks, and her voice rises a little.

"Just play it cool," you tell her. "I'll be there soon."

There's a muffled sound, and then another, equally recognizable voice. "So," sneers Spades Slick, "I hear you'll show up to our little party."

"Maybe," you say. "Depends on if any chicks are going to be there."

"Real funny, funny guy," says Spades Slick. "What do I have to do to get a reaction out of you? If the deal's not good this time, I'll blow up your apartment. Little old lady next door, boom. They'll think she left the oven on. But you'll know."

"God," you say. "I don't know anybody who overacts like you, Slick."

"Just show up," he says, voice getting rougher. "At least to know what happens to your girlfriend."

"Your information's old," you tell him. "She's not my girlfriend."

"That mean we can have her?" he asks you.

"No," you say, and you are already infinitely tired, "you know I'll be there."

"Yeah," he says. "You better."

For the first time in a week, your hand throbs.


	11. Chapter 11

You walk straight into the Midnight Crew's hideout. You figured out where it was awhile ago, behind and beneath the ugliest and dingiest of their fronts. Hearts Boxcars is at the bar. You walk straight past him.

"Slick's in the back," he tells you. You tell him you didn't ask him, and push through the door with the cardboard "Employees Only" sign on it.

You run into Clubs Deuce in the dingy hallway. "Hi Problem Sleuth," he says. "You're probably here about your girlfriend. They're at the end of the hall." You tell him she's not your girlfriend, and he mostly looks surprised. You stalk down to the door at the back.

Diamonds Droog is standing in front of it. He doesn't offer any helpful information. He just stands there.

"You mind?" you ask.

"Very much indeed," he says flatly.

"Too fucking bad," you say pitilessly. "Get out of my way, Droog."

"Get out of mine," he says. "Don't lead him on again. If you'd let him murder you tonight, that would be extremely convenient."

You push Droog out of the way. _Click._ You turn, slowly, to regard the gun in Droog's hand. "Don't be stupid," you tell him.

"I'm telling you the same thing," he says. "Don't test me, Problem Sleuth. I like Slick more than I obey him."

"Stop pining," you suggest, because you guess you have a death wish. "If he hasn't noticed you by now it's probably not going to get through his thick head."

You think Droog's about to shoot you, but in the end, loyalty seems to win out. His lips, thin and pressed together, slowly curl into a sneer, and he holsters the gun and walks away, stalking down the long hallway on long legs.

That, at least, could have gone worse. Three down, one to go.

You open the door, and walk into the den of Spades Slick.


	12. Chapter 12

God, you wish you had a plan.

But you don't, so you just bust through the door and belatedly wish you'd clocked Droog in the face when you had the chance. You could have thrown him in in front of you, how hardboiled do you even have to be?

But you didn't, so it's just you, Dame, and Spades Slick, and of course Spades Slick's knife up against her throat. He tosses it at you; for once, not an attempt to wound. It's just a casual underhand throw, and the knife skids across the floor to you, spinning to a stop. Spades Slick draws another one out of his jacket and flips it open; the _snick_ echoes around the room to you.

"Look who decided to show up," says Spades Slick in the voice like he's been swallowing pinecones. "Going to play along this time, Problem Sleuth?"

"What if I don't, Slick?" you ask him, like you're in no hurry, like he doesn't have your former girlfriend tied to a chair, like he doesn't have a knife at her throat. She looks at you with the expression that looks calm on the outside, but you know that inside she's screaming into a pillow, and it's only a matter of time before her Hysteria Meter maxes out.

"That's fine," he says, and the way his words rush to fill in an answer tell you it wouldn't be, "that's fine, you just turn around and walk out the door and I'll stick a couple things into your girlfriend here and we'll all go home happy, right? Except you, of course," he directs to Dame, and leans down to say softly into her ear, "because you'll be dead." The look of anxiety on his face is disorienting.

"Alright," you say, cutting him off when Dame's chest begins heaving against the ropes. You can practically see her gauge filling. In a minute she'll start screaming, pillow or no. "What if I do?"

He grins, and his teeth fill the room. It is malicious and vicious and somehow disturbingly hopeful. "Gimme your word. Swear you'll do what I want, if I let her go."

"Unharmed."

"Whatever, fine, yes, unharmed." His words tumble out in a restless flurry. "I'll let her go, she can walk on outta here. You stay. Fight me. Do what I want."

"You going to try to kill me?" you ask, because despite all you've been through, you're still not sure. Is that what he wants, you dying in front of him?

"I guess," he says, jittering. "I mean, yeah."

Good enough. "You got it, Slick," you say. "I'll stay on after she goes, we'll try to kill each other. Deal."

"Just pick up the knife, Problem Sleuth," he says, but his eyes lit up with your oath and his body relaxes into something lithe and graceful. You had no idea how tense he was until his shoulders dropped by visible inches.

You pick it up in no particular hurry. You toss it once, get used to the feel of the handle. Slick smiles, wide and open and horrifyingly honest, and slashes through Dame's bindings. He tosses the knife, fast and spinning, and grabs the handle without having to judge which end is which. He advances halfway and waits impatiently as Dame extracts herself and hurries past you to the door.

"You're not actually staying," she says, more than asks. You nod grimly, watching Spades Slick pace like a cat. "Why?" she asks.

"Said so," you tell her.

"Well, that was stupid," she says, clutches her purse, and walks out. You grip the knife, and walk to meet Spades Slick.

"It _was_ pretty stupid," he says, and then he leaps for you.


	13. Chapter 13

Knife fights are nasty things, you decide. You know where you are in a brawl or a standoff. You get punched, no big deal, punch back. If you take a hit here, that'll probably be it. The two of you circle in the room, suddenly two big for only the two of you. It's faster than a brawl, and slower, too- long stretches of nothing, of silence and eyeing Slick's chest for his next move, punctuated by rapid whistling strikes. You saw a snake attack once. That's what it feels like. Wait with your fangs bared and then launch yourself in to try to sink it into him or rake a gouge through his flesh.

Snakes are totally freaky, and you don't like them. You don't like knife fights much, either. That makes one of you, because Spades Slick, at least, is in his element.

He moves like a snake, too, or a cat or something sinuous and dark. He's never been like this before, wired to the point of snapping. He's been vicious and vengeful, and he's beaten the crap out of you, but he's never been graceful before. You hurl yourself backwards out of the range of a swipe that would slice through muscle and sever tendons. Spades Slick recovers easily, twirls the knife, and easily returns to his circling.

Wait. Wait. Wait- lunge, swipe, retreat, wait.

You're supposed to watch his chest, the way he breathes, the curve of it, so that it'll tell you his next move. You need every advantage you can get. But you find your eyes drifting up to his face, to the glorious smile crowning it, to his eyes blazing white. You don't wonder how he finds so much excitement in knives now. You can feel the damage this could do. You're learning the game. But you do wonder how he finds so much joy in it.

Then there's a black blur, and an agonizing red-hot pain searing across your arm, and you swear, expecting to go down with a curse being your last words. A moment later, though, a hand clasped to your upper arm, Spades Slick still hasn't struck again, and you raise your head to look at him. He's waiting patiently outside your reach, watching you like a dog trapped on the other side of the door.

So strange.

But, Spades Slick aside, you've only got so much left. It wasn't much of a cut, but it bites right across your arm and it'll throw you off. You can't afford it, not if you want to leave this room alive. Only so many options.

So you figure you'll take your chances. Maybe the rock ain't so hard after all.

You drop the knife and throw yourself at Spades Slick.


	14. Chapter 14

He wasn't expecting it. Or rather, he was expecting you to take a swipe at him and retreat; to, you know, knife fight. Whatever, he wasn't expecting this.

You rush him, throw your whole body into it, and, as he leans back to avoid a slash that you never make, you tackle him to the floor. The two of you skid across the floor; Spades Slick wriggles beneath you and it takes all your effort to pin him down. You're not twice his height or weight, but he's a skinny guy. Five-one tops. You've got a lot on that, but he's so sharp, he's so honed on violence. He's so hard to keep down. You get his knife hand pinned with the other one and get your knee up between his legs and then you just lean the full force of your weight on him.

He tests, tries exit after exit, and you get them all. He lets out a growl of frustration and tries to slam his face into yours, and you get your head out of the way just in time, and mutter into his ear, "Calm the fuck down, Slick."

And, bizarrely, miraculously, he does. He practically stops breathing. You wait for his break but he doesn't make it, and when you pull your head back and look down at him, a skinny bit of shadow pinned to the floor, he is looking away. His chest moves, shallowly; his teeth are bared, but it can't be called a snarl.

You ask him what you should have asked from the start. "What do I have to do to make you stop stabbing me?" you say quietly, easily. Your body aches- your hand, your shoulder.

White eyes meet yours. His lips twitch, falter, and his expression dies into something confused, something only half-there. Your own determined frown disappears, gritted teeth letting go. For a moment, the two of you just look at each other, a couple inches away.

There is a moment of something you guess you'd call honesty, one of those moments you see him like you had his soul open on a table and you could poke through it and examine it from every angle. It's just perfectly obvious to you, at last. He'd been nothing but truthful with you, you can see, you can see it in his eyes and the surprising soft stare, in his mouth and the way his lips part with you so close. And it's more than that, the pure intensity and understanding the first time you stare into someone else's eyes and they watch yours.

But you know now, and that's the important part.

"How long?" you ask him, and it feels like you haven't used your voice in a week, though you spoke seconds ago, or maybe minutes.

His cheek twitches. You know instinctively it's not a lying tic, because you know now that Spades Slick doesn't lie. It's just the discomfort of saying something incredibly, overwhelmingly personal. "Pretty much forever," he says, and his lip curls in distaste. It's for him, you know, you know perfectly and completely; he hates himself, that he feels it, that he has to say it, that you know it.

He's tried to turn it into something else, and he's done a good job of it. He's just different from you, he just feels different. The misunderstanding was easy. But he couldn't hide it entirely, and the closer he got the more obvious it was, until now when it was all laid out bare in front of you. He tried to hate you, to hurt you, to ruin you, but that wasn't why he did it.

And knowing, you sort of forgive him. You know as well as anyone. This just isn't the sort of thing you can forget, the sort of thing you can wall off. He did the best he could.

Now he looks away, full of his own discomfort, his own sickness at himself, and you think, for a moment feeling more pity than anger, _sorry_. And then, because he's so fucked-up, because he just tried for you, because he hid it for so long, because you don't know why, you kiss him.


	15. Chapter 15

He tastes like cigarettes; he tastes like copper. A moment of slow movement, your lips against his unmoving ones, then he gasps in air and whispers, "God, yeah," to you. His mouth snatches at yours and neither of you breathe in what feels like forever. His chest strains against you, but you don't let him out. You keep him pinned.

You move down his jaw, scruff sharp against your lips, down his neck. You lost that first gentle second almost as soon as you first kissed him, and now you're both struggling. You sink your teeth into his neck, where it meets the shoulder, and he arches, then collapses, hissing breath through interlocked teeth. The pain both relaxes and excites him. It's what he wants, and maybe what he needs, and the two things aren't the same but he's still getting it.

You nip, lick, kiss as far down his chest as you can, into the open collar of his shirt. Then you've finally got to let go of him, because you just can't get more of him from here, and if this started as one second of pity it's quickly changing into controlling Spades Slick. You don't know if there's another way to do it. But here, at least, you know you're in control, and Slick spiralling out of it. You wrangle his wrists into one hand, wrench the knife out of his grip, and stab it viciously through his cuffs.

He tugs at it, and you watch, in case, but it holds for now. "You're just lucky it wasn't through your wrists," you tell him, and Slick _whines_.

Then you're ripping his jacket open, shrugging out of your own. His shirt falls open past his collar bones, but it's not enough, and you flip the buttons open impatiently. You push it wide, off to each side, and leave his skinny chest bare. There're marks all over. Worse than you. Four-line claw marks in white, round cigarette burns, then the shiny signs of a decent heal on an indecent wound. "Shit, Slick," you mutter, but you don't stop touching him, anyhow. The pity doesn't last; you're getting the feeling it never will. How many of these were his own goddamn fault?

Still. They must've hurt like hell.

You put your teeth against them, so they probably hurt a bit now, too.


	16. Chapter 16

It's been awhile. Maybe that's why you're doing this, in all senses. It's been a long time since Slick started his fucked-up persecution courtship, so you think getting some goddamn closure on that wouldn't be so bad. And it's been awhile since Slick had anybody who got him, that much is obvious, so maybe you're doing it a bit to show him that, yeah, you do. And it's been a long while since you had anybody stripped down and naked in front of you, and even if it's Spades Slick, the feeling is good. Real good.

And admittedly, the fact that he's hard and trying to rock against your leg, when all you've done to him is kiss him and bite at the scars on his chest, the fact that his eyes are glazed over and he keeps closing them deliriously whenever you touch him, no matter how rough or how gentle you are, those are pretty good too.

You run your hands down his chest, raking straight over all the scars and feeling the ridges and where the skin is burned smooth. You check where his mouth falls open and what makes him grind against you, and then you go back to those places and exploit them. You brush your thumb over his nipple and his breath shakes coming out of him, and then you bite it lightly and flick your tongue against it and his hips seize against you. You don't touch the other one; there's something inherently asymmetrical about Spades Slick, and you don't want to make it even. Maybe it's just he's off-balance, crazily lurching through life like every bit of momentum tips the world and throws him forward.

Then your hands slip from playing around his stomach. You slide one hand behind him, up into his hair. Your hand doesn't like the motion, and aches dully, but you put it to work anyhow. You don't need that much dexterity to grab a handful of Spades Slick's hair and just keep him there. Just another bit of control over unpredictable Slick, and you think you're going to need it all.

The other hand slides over his belt and down, palm over the tent in his trousers. Press, feel it push back. Slick is gasping. You bite his ear, sucking the silver ring there, and start stroking him through his pants. "Will you just calm down, Slick?" you ask him casually, mutter it into his ear, as he starts shoving his hips at you desperately. He whimpers. It's not a sound you'd ever think to hear from him.

You're nowhere near as cool as you're acting to Spades Slick. Maybe the gangster isn't your foremost choice of partners, but having him moaning whenever you touch him and rutting up against you is an undeniable draw. And besides, your life since you met him has been one big spiral out of control. Getting this, controlling Slick, it's full of heady dizziness and makes your body buzz. You raise welts along his neck and shoulders and he strains against the knife in his cuffs like he'll sink into your body if he just gets close enough.

Well, close enough.


	17. Chapter 17

You keep close to him after you've stripped his pants down to his ankles, crushing your mouths together just to hear him moaning into yours. Your sense of satisfaction is stronger than ever, the pure pleasure of having your tormentor pinned to the ground and subject to your whims, and having him gasping around your tongue in his mouth just reinforces it. Maybe you can understand him a bit more, now. He saw what he wanted, and he just wanted to ruin any chances of anyone else owning it. You guess you can understand that, because you're feeling a pull, strong as any addiction, that just says _don't let anyone touch this_.

He's got his feet flat on the floor, knees bent, giving himself some leverage to shove his hips up, try to make your hand around his shaft speed up. Impatient fucking Slick, can't realize a good thing when he sees it. Has to throw himself against everything. You slow down just to spite him, and he mutters breathless curses and demands at you, garbled into nothing through the pleasure.

He was so damn hard, probably before you even touched him. Sounds like Spades Slick, getting off on a knife fight. You bet he can barely finish a brawl for the need to jack off. You mutter these things to him, smug and cruel in his ears, and he just gets harder when he hears them. He's starting to shake, fingers gripping at nothing, head pulling at your fist buried in his hair. His hips lean into you and his words twist into a litany of incoherent demands- "fuck, yes, keep going- harder, fuck-" and you are laughing grimly, pinning him in with superior weight and strength.

And, because it's been a year of hospital visits and pain, because he hurt you and he hurt your friends, because you can't straighten the fingers on your left hand, you stop.

Slick gasps air into his lungs. His eyes miss their mark before they fix on yours, and they're bleary and desperate. "What- fuck, keep going?"

You smile at him, and it doesn't feel like your smile. You've got a fist in his hair, and last time you had that, you almost beat his face into the floor. It was only the reminder not to become him that stopped you. But now it's too late for that, because you've seen Spades Slick, and you've got a piece of him inside you now. It's that little piece that says, _punish him_ , and that little piece that says, _he'll enjoy it_.

You take your hand off his cock and wrap it around the shaft of the knife holding his cuffs in place, and you rip it out of the ground, leaving a ragged hole in the wrists of his suit jacket, hanging open off his shoulders.

"Slick," you say, and even you don't recognize your voice now, "how about you give back a little?"


	18. Chapter 18

He eyes the knife as you strip out of your own pants. His worry is evident, and you smile. "What, this?" you ask. "Just a guarantee, Slick."

Then you pry open his mouth and gently place the blade inside. The spine rests between his terrifying shark teeth, and the edge nestles into them. His eyes reproach you, but you're not moved. "What? Because I've got some great reason to trust you now?" It's not like you're stabbing him in the mouth, but you're not giving Spades Slick any reason to bite down, either.

Then, right hand gently balancing the blade, you slide your dick into his mouth. He's eager enough that the knife is just a precaution. He put eight knives in you, one in your best friend, and kidnapped your former girlfriend, and that was his idea of showing you a good time. So, you know. Just in case.

As this sort of thing goes, it's not the best. The fact he can't close his mouth is a drawback as well as a benefit (though not enough to cancel it out). He can't suck on you, but he throws his full force of effort into lashing you with his tongue. Outside of that, the rush from sticking any part of your body into that maw is shivery and cold, and your scalp prickles every time his teeth graze you- barely. Just barely.

He salivates a lot, but that's probably because of the knife. For you, it just makes things, haha, real slick.

And he whines around your cock, probably because you drew him right up to the edge before you dropped him. You don't feel bad. He deserves a lot worse than what you're giving him, and it's only the fact that you're obviously becoming as crazy as he is that you haven't given it to him yet.

(Yet.)

You wrap your other hand around the base of your shaft and start pumping. This is not going to take long. You're strung out on revenge, enjoying your role as the implacable wronged. It feels good, and that filters through your body and draws a tight wire through your limbs. And it's only getting tighter.

It finally snaps when you look down at Spades Slick. His beacon eyes are closed; not in pain or waiting, but in what you have to guess is rapture. His breath comes heavy against the tip of your cock, and his tongue is stroking you. It's not steady and it's not rhythmic, but a constant barrage, his tongue everywhere against you. You can't hold back long, and when he lets out another long sound, part whimper and just as much of a moan, your arm shakes and your fingers clench around your cock, and then you're coming into him, spurting into his mouth with his clever tongue still lapping at you.

At some point in the long end, you realize you've dropped the knife, and you've got both hands clenched in his hair. He stays good, mouth carefully open, teeth suspended like a serrated guillotine around you. You shudder, and slowly stop fucking him. Slowly. It's hard to stop entirely.

Deep breath. Sit back. Recover. Dart in, swipe, retreat. Maybe the relationship between you and Spades Slick was just one extended knife fight all along, and you just refused to attack. Well, you finally got one in, and like all knife fights, one good attack is all you need. Now it's his turn. You sit back and wait for Spades Slick to come to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points for anyone who realizes where I took the knife gimmick from


	19. Chapter 19

He touches his jaw tentatively, then gives it a rough snap and twist, biting at air. One finger brushes in against his teeth; just a hint of red there, where you nicked him, watery and wet with his saliva. He looks down at his finger thoughtfully, then licks the blood away again. He's panting, you realize belatedly, and he's still almost as hard as you left him.

His eyes snap up to yours. They are wild and fucking crazy. He bares his teeth, and his lip twitches, trembles. He's shaking. He needs you, you realize, and you have the perverse desire to walk out right now. But you don't. You just stay where you are and say, "Come here, Slick," and he does, stumbling over. You pull him on to you, straddling your lap with his rigid cock pressing into your stomach.

You want to fuck him, you realize, but you won't today. Today you're already drained and tired, and your arm pulls and aches where he cut you, and your body hurts where he's cut you before. But you will. You'll stash it away for later and make him take it, make him pay for what he's done to you, all those times he left you helpless and bleeding on the floor of a warehouse or back alley. You tell him that, too, as you wrap your hand around him and start pumping.

He doesn't have words anymore, but then, Spades Slick was always brief with them. He just makes sounds, nothing like words, and presses his body against yours, slim and dark in the room lit like a club. You grab his wrist and sink your teeth into it, into the barcode tattooed there. He howls and arches over top of you, and holy fuck you want him doing this with your cock up inside him. You want to fuck him, force him to do what you want just like he forced you, hedge him in until he's got no option but you, and to take what you give him.

It is unspeakably addictive. You get him now.

Then there's no part of him that isn't yours, as soon as you realize it. He is yours, and if you're rough with him, it's just to demonstrate. To show the world the marks you left on him. To show him he'd better not fuck around with you. He's yours now, and you own him entirely. This is how Spades Slick saw you. He saw you and wanted you and showed you you were stupid to try to ignore him, to try to deal with him like you would anyone else.

So all you do is show him the same thing.

You bite into his shoulder, and if you don't have horrible teeth like a dinosaur, you can still sink them in. Then you grab his hair, pull him to you, and his moans mute as your mouths collide. He comes crashing, splattering over your chest, his cum dripping down your hand, and it's your name he repeats as he finishes.

And, you think, extracting yourself to leave him on the floor of his own hideout, it's your name he'll be repeating for awhile yet.


	20. Chapter 20

You thought Spades Slick just wanted violence. You thought that everything else was a pale substitute, and that the thrill he got from messing you up was just that, a rush from destroying you a little more. And yeah, he did get that, but what you didn't realize was that what he really wanted was you. He just had to carve out the parts that weren't like him.

And he did. You can give him that much. You're still you, but maybe you're missing a few parts. You've gained a few, too. You're a lot better at a knife fight these days. But the real thing that's changed is just how you look at the world.

You could decide to claim the world, the way Spades Slick has taught you to think. You don't want the world, though. All you want is him. He made himself the center of your world, because you were the center of his.

"Why'd you do it?" you ask him one night, trailing a key down his temple and watching him blanch. You play these games all the time, knives and guns and dangerous things. You'd never do this with anyone else, but catching fear mixing with desire on Slick's face is, like all things he's taught you, addictive.

"B-because," he stammers angrily, flinching away from the steel.

"Come on," you tell him. "What made it start?"

He looks away, like this out of all the things you're doing is making him uncomfortable, and says roughly, "Funny. You were funny."

And that's all, but it's enough, because Spades Slick doesn't use a lot of words. You weren't him at the start, but he saw enough there to know you could be. With a bit of effort. Spades Slick never lies. He told you right from the start. You just didn't know how to look at it, then.

Now you know better. You can see the world as Spades Slick sees it, because he marked you out. And yeah, he is a complete psychopath, and when you're around him, so are you.

But that's just because he's yours. You've got dibs, after all.


End file.
